Matches in the Gas Tank: Boom Boom!
by Spittle is Unclean
Summary: Sequel to "Dial Tone of the Heart." Charlie has grown from a four-year-old snuff addict into a blossoming youth. He sets out on a quest to regain his identity and meet his favorite band, the Sons of Numenor, in the process. [Unfinished.]
1. I Was A Teenage Snuff Addict

Matches in the Gas Tank: Boom Boom! is our newest fanfiction attempt and sequel to the infamous Dial Tone of the Heart. Enjoy!   
  
---------------   
  
The sun was bright upon the courtyards of Gondor. It shone on the brilliant flowers. It shone on the White Tower. It shone on the gleaming golden locks of the sixteen year-old youth who leaned rebelliously into the pure summer air, smoking.   
  
The shrill cry echoed through the courtyard. Put that out!   
  
Oh shut up, Uncle Frodo. Charlie grimaced, but he stubbed the cigarette out all the same.   
  
Below, a weary hobbit came into view, stumbling along slowly on his toeless feet. He squinted up at the boy, who shrugged and grudgingly began his descent from the Tower.   
  
Frodo said warmly, patting the boy's slim tanned arm. We'd love you to come hang decorations in the banquet hall for tonight's celebration. Having toes really does make a difference, you know.   
  
Charlie squirmed uncomfortably. Uncle FrodoI've been meaning to ask. Would it be alright if I didn't attend the celebration tonight?   
  
Frodo's eyes flashed angrily. Not attend? Not attend the celebration of our twelve years of freedom from Gandalf's evil persecution? Of course you will be attending! Don't you want to spend time with your family? The family that raised you, took you in when you were dirty and half-starved, weaned you from snuff?   
  
The family that made me forget what my real father's face looks like? Charlie retorted, the pitch of his voice rising as tears sprang into his clear green eyes.   
  
White with rage, Frodo glared up at his foster-son. Your father, he said through clenched teeth, your father cut off my toes and the toes of all I loved. He deserted you! You don't know how blessed you are to have hobbits in your life!   
  
I wish I didn't! Charlie yelled, brushing the tears from his eyes. I wish I was still living with Gandalf! I wish I'd never come here! And with that, the boy ran from the courtyard.   
  
Frodo sighed. He knew where the boy had run off to – up to his black-draped room to listen angrily to his new Sons of Numenor CD in the darkness. Oh well. The child had been through an awful lot in his short life. Pursing his lips, Frodo hobbled back towards the kitchens, planning what kind of sauce would be served that evening with the pudding.   
  
*   
  
Merry Brandybuck gave a giggle of delight as he surveyed the decorations. He was most fond of the large banner, which read Twelve Years of Gandalf-Free Living! In fact, he was so delighted that he could almost feel his phantom toes wiggle in joy.   
  
Sipping from his tankard of ale with a contented sigh, he leaned back and watched the young hobbits, some carrying newborns whose toes wiggled freely, safe from any danger. Belching, Merry turned to the large pile of mail lying beside him on the table. He picked up the guest list with a weary look and began to check off RSVPs.   
  
Gimli son of Gloin will be here! he exclaimed with joy, checking Gimli's name with a flourish. Haven't seen him in ageswonder if he knows about Aragorn and Legolas?   
  
Merry's eyes misted over a little as he thought of his two friends and their devastating and gruesome downfalls. Legolas had been awfully tasty though, he remembered, salivating slightly. So tender. What had they used to spice him? Oregano, was it?   
  
His thoughts were cut short by the entrance of Frodo, which immediately led to cheers from the other hobbits, particularly Samwise. One look at Mr. Baggins' face, however, and Merry could tell that not all was well.   
  
Bumbleberry Flashtyhook, Merry called to a hobbit who lay in the corner, playing happily with his prosthetic toes. Do these RSVPs, won't you? Beckoning to Sam and Pippin, Merry took Frodo firmly by one arm and dragged him out into the hallway for a serious talk.   
  
What is it, Master Frodo? Sam asked, fat and concerned.   
  
Frodo groaned, looking older than ever. He was certainly taking after Bilbo, Merry decided. Just Charlie.   
  
Sam repeated, glowering. Always thought there was somethin' not right about that   
  
What's he done this time? Pippin asked eagerly.   
  
The three hobbits leaned forward for their share in the new gossip tidbit. Eyeing Frodo, they waited.  
  
He...he doesn't want to come to the celebration tonight, Frodo muttered to the floor.  
  
The others stared, aghast.   
  
Sam finally said.  
  
I'm afraid so, Sam, Frodo replied. I'm afraid so.  
  
But...but I nursed him to health! Merry cried.  
  
And I played hand games with him! Sam cried.  
  
And I smuggled him snuff to stop his cravings! Pippin cried.  
  
You did? Frodo would have struck Pippin across the face, but he was too distraught.  
  
Does he feel nothing for us? the hobbits pondered in despair.  
  
*  
  
Charlie's upper lip spasmed as he surveyed the scene below him.  
  
Bloody hobbits, he spat, and bobbed his head in time with his new-fangled rock music.  
  
We're the Sons of Numenor! he sang. Yeah, yeah, oh yeah!  
  
There came a sudden heavy banging at the door.  
  
Charlie? It's Frodo!  
  
In response, Charlie turned his super-hobbit-magical-boombox up to number eleven.  
  
We are the lads of Numenor!/ Come hang with us in our pad in Mordor!  
  
Charlie stopped short, forgetting the terrific banging from Frodo.  
  
he said, brightening. If I could go hang out with S.O.N. in Mordor, I wouldn't be shunned for my snuff addiction!  
  
His fingers trembled as he unlatched the delicate catch of his father's silver snuffbox. Eyeing the door in paranoia, Charlie quickly took a pinch and snorted it in satisfaction.  
  
As he lay back on the black-satin coverlet, Charlie realized that Frodo's insistent pounding on the door had ceased. From below, he heard laughter and quaint hobbit music.  
  
cried Frodo, sailing through the window.   
  
Charlie gave a high-pitched yell and scrambled to hide the evidence of his illicit activities.  
  
Frodo's face, which had been flushed with exertion, went grey very quickly.  
  
he sputtered eventually, pointing an accusing finger at his foster-son, who was still clutching the precious silver box. I've -- after all I've _done_ for you! I brought you up! Nursed you when you were green with withdrawal! Catapulted myself through your window because I thought you might be hurt!  
  
Charlie's mouth trembled, and he fought back the tears of indignance that threatened to spill forth.  
  
he began.   
  
A broken sob escaped the croaky depths of Frodo's throat. I am _not_ your father! I HAVE NO SON.  
  
Fine! And I haven't got any father, either! screamed Charlie back, tossing his S.O.N. Cds into his rucksack and running towards the door, knocking Frodo to the ground as he went.  
  
He fell blindly down the stairs and tumbled out into the deserted courtyard. The banquet hall's windows, brilliant with yellow light, cast strange shadows amongst the trees. Charlie paused to get back his breath; fumbling for a cigarette, he did not notice his companion in the bushes.  
  
  
  
Giving a squeak of fear, Charlie dropped his cigarette and flattened himself against the stony wall. Who's there?  
  
A squat, bearded dwarf stumped jovially into the light. Can I bum a smoke, pal?  
  
Charlie gave a sigh of relief and handed the dwarf a cigarette. Taking a break from the festivities?  
  
Hell's yeah, boy, the dwarf grunted, taking a long drag from his cigarette and squinting upward at the teen. Hey! Charlie!  
  
Yeah, that's my name, Charlie muttered, looking away.  
  
I'll bet you don't remember me, little buddy, but I was there at your first birthday bash! I'm Gimli. Gimli son of Gloin, he added, noting the confusion on the youth's face. There was still nothing. I knew your father.  
  
Ah, now that did it. The boy's eyes were twinkling now, twinkling with certain and eager recognition.  
  
My father?  
  
Gimli snorted. I mean, we were companions once. Helluva big quest, that was. Hard on the feet _and_ the heart. Course, I don't wanna bore you, but I got jilted awful bad by this sweet piece named Legol--  
  
So you knew my mother, then?  
  
The dwarf blinked. Oh. Oh, yeah. Your mother...? Sure, I knew her. I mean, we all did. Or at least, we _thought_ we knew her... He trailed off, his eyes dark with some hidden hate.  
  
So you know where to find her? Charlie was jiggling impatiently, taking half-psychotic drags from his cigarette every now and then.  
  
Don't want to talk about it, Gimli pouted, turning away. Besides, it's not as if I know where she lives now...for all I know, she could be in Mordor!  
  
Mordor? Thanks! He sprinted off into the night.  
  
Gimli called after him. Don't you wanna hear about the time I got jilted by this sweet piece named Legolas? Said he liked manly men, he did! Tall men, he did!  
  
The dwarf kicked a discarded beer can gruffly, all alone in the garden.  
  
*  
  
Oh dear, mumbled Frodo apprehensively. Where's Charlie?  
  
---------------  
  
Read and review, darlings. We dedicate this chapter to Sam for his utter impatience, and Abby for her sweet adoration.  



	2. Charlie Meets Sven

We're still typing away, striving to bring you magnificent fanfiction. Read on!  
  
---------------  
  
It took Charlie many long grueling weeks, packed with adventures of galactic proportions, but finally he made it to Mordor.  
  
I'm here! he puffed, stooping to rest in front of the floral welcome sign that alerted him of his arrival. Who'd have thought I'd be able to get away from all those yellowjackets!  
  
came a deep voice from behind him. Whassup with you, man?  
  
Charlie whirled around, his leather habit hanging on him in tatters.  
  
he screamed. You! From the picture!  
  
What the hell? the guy replied, scratching his head. Do I know you, man?  
  
I...I guess not... Charlie stuttered to his feet. I guess I thought you were someone else...  
  
Well, then get your hands off the sign, alright? I gotta clean it, man!  
  
Charlie replied, stumbling away from the sign and flopping to the ground in exhaustion. A hazy film was clouding his vision when he suddenly noticed the burly man's t-shirt. Hey! You like Sons of Numenor?  
  
The man turned from the sign, light shining in his eyes. Like them? _Like_ them, man? Dude, I _love_ them! I mean, my whole style's based on their lead singer! He plucked at his battered S.O.N. t-shirt in delight.  
  
Really? Steward of Gondor? Rock! Charlie exclaimed. Have you heard their newest CD?   
  
Sign washing forgotten, the man settled down next to Charlie and thumped the emaciated teenager on the back. Heard it? I own twelve copies! _And_ I'm going to their concert at the Hobbitnath this weekend -- it's gonna rock my fuckin' world, dude!  
  
A concert? At the Hobbitnath? Charlie was fairly drooling. You think...you think maybe I could come along?  
  
The man's eyes narrowed slightly. Dunno, man. I mean...you got any...well...drugs, or anything?  
  
I've got snuff, Charlie offered.  
  
Instantly, the man's face broke into a toothy grin. I'm Sven, he smiled, shaking Charlie's hand heartily.  
  
Charlie replied.  
  
Awesome, Charlie my man! We're gonna rock this party!  
  
All thoughts of his mother forgotten, Charlie nodded to Sven in blissful agreement.  
  
*  
  
Pump up the volume, Charlie! Sven cried, sneezing snuff residue into a large paisley handkerchief and swerving wildly to avoid a passing cart. This has got to be my favorite S.O.N. song of all time!  
  
Charlie had never felt so happy and free. The wind was blowing through his strings of filthy hair, he had a free ride to the S.O.N. concert of his dreams, and Sven the druggie loved singing along with Steward of Gondor almost as much as Charlie did.  
  
The night was cold and dark, but our tent was full of heat! sang Sven to the heavy drumbeats.  
  
Since oh, oh hark -- we'd just made love so sweet! Charlie joined in.  
  
I was pickin' at some bark when you kicked me in the teeth. I said through my blood...what the fork? What the beef?  
  
What the beeeeeef, man? Hey, what the beef?  
  
This song rocks! Charlie screamed to Sven over the thrilling guitar riffs.  
  
I know, right? Sven replied. I mean, man, I can like _so_ relate!  
  
You mean _you've_ been kicked in the teeth after making love so sweet in a hot tent as well?  
  
Well, no, Sven said after a moment's pause. But sometimes when I wake up in the morning, it sure feels like it.  
  
Charlie chuckled. Word to _that_, he cried with soul, reaching for another pinch of snuff.  
  
He had finally found a friend, a friend who had all his toes and wasn't half Charlie's size.  
  
Or so he thought.  
  
And rightly so.  
  
*  
  
Steward of Gondor carefully adjusted the plastic mask of Elvis he would be wearing for the evening's performance. Although the mask caused him to sweat profusely and muffled his voice, Steward of Gondor was very fond of it. He was proud to say that no fan of the Sons of Numenor (and no member of the Sons of Numenor, come to think of it) had ever seen his face, and he planned to keep it that way.  
  
Speaking of seeing his face, Steward of Gondor wasn't sure he'd viewed it himself in at least a week. Ah well. It was better that way, he decided, stepping happily from his trailer.  
  
*  
  
Charlie sprang from the truck and gazed around excitedly at the growing crowd of S.O.N. fans that had flocked to the shores of the Brandywine. A stage, bridging the river, had been built between the two majestic stone figures of the Hobbitnath, and from the looks of the workmen lugging boxes of dynamite, there would be large explosions later that evening.  
  
I am so fuckin' psyched, man! Sven was twisting the edge of his ratty t-shirt with violent joy.  
  
You bet, Charlie replied, but his face had fallen. His ratty tunic and stinking hair were completely inappropriate to wear at the concert of a lifetime. You think I could just hop in the river while you set up the truck somewhere?  
  
Sure, Charlie my man, Sven grunted vaguely, drool running down his chin.  
  
Charlie patted Sven on the back and then headed off to find a more private section of river and a S.O.N. t-shirt vendor.  
  
*  
  
Frodo sobbed desolately into the little pillow shaped like a blackberry that Sam had made him for his birthday. His toeless feet trembled with aching loss, and he was sniffling so loudly that he didn't even hear the door open.  
  
Feeling any better? Merry asked cautiously.  
  
Frodo whined into the pillow.  
  
He's only been gone for a few weeks, Pippin offered hopefully. For all we know, he could be coming home right now. Or maybe he sent a postcard and it got lost in the mail.  
  
Or maybe he got eaten by something, Sam added, fat and excited.  
  
Frodo began to blubber even louder.   
  
Master Frodo, I didn' mean that! Sam cried, flinging himself down beside Frodo and cradling the sobbing hobbit's head against his chest. But you must stop crying! You haven' come out in nigh on two weeks now, and the other hobbits are feelin' aimless without you!  
  
So let them feel aimless! Frodo spat, hiding his face in his hands. My Charlie. My sweet little Charlie...how could he leave us? How could my lad leave us? What will become of him?  
  
Maybe he just wanted to explore, Merry explained patiently. He's a lot taller than us, after all. And he's got toes. You remember the way toes feel, Frodo. You remember the way they make you ache to explore!  
  
The room went silent as all the hobbits' eyes misted over. Toes. They had once had toes. They had once wanted to roam free through the lands of the Shire, their toes digging into the soft grass.  
  
It's no use, Frodo yelled, shattering the soft dreams of those little wiggling appendages in the greenery. Gandalf ate our toes, and I took that boy in! And I'll be damned if I let him wander the country whenever he pleases!  
  
*  
  
Wiping streaks of wet golden hair from his eyes, Charlie sauntered back towards camp. The sky was becoming heavy with the coming dusk, and lights were flashing around the stage now. At the edge of the crowd, Charlie could make out Sven. He seemed to be waving a large red flag that read Play Numenorean Dream'!  
  
Charlie hollered over the loud roars from the crowd, grabbing the massive drug addict by the sleeve. It's starting, isn't it?  
  
Oh yeah, Charlie! It's starting alright! Sven seized Charlie roughly by the collar of his brand new S.O.N. shirt and began to plough through the crowd towards the front of the stage.  
  
As they approached the stage, fire erupted from the edges and Steward of Gondor flung himself out into the open, his plastic Elvis mask glinting orange in the flames. Charlie felt his heart beating in his ears. he shrieked. Steward, over here!  
  
The masked face swiveled slowly towards Charlie, and the edges of the mouth crinkled in a plastic-y grin, large white teeth showing through the cheap cut-out mouth hole. He waved his large leather-gloved hand at the swooning youth. Heya everyone, he called out to the enormous crowd. Let's start the evening with an old Sons of Numenor favorite -- Numenorean Dream'!  
  
The crowd swelled in once fantastic, beast-like roar. Sven looked like he was having heart failure.  
  
The lyrics of Numenorean Dream have been included for your edification below.  
  
_The first time I saw  
your beautiful face,  
you were slaying an orc  
with the most absolute grace.  
I asked for your number,  
you spat in my face.  
I said, Hey man, what's up?  
and you called me a mental case.  
  
I went back to my room  
and I started to cry.  
Things seemed so dismal,  
I didn't know why.  
I dreamed of baking with you  
a delicious pizza-pie.  
But alas, alas darling,  
my love I had to deny.  
  
_Chorus_  
Life really sucks, it seeeeeems!  
Without you, my Numenorean dreeeeeeam!  
  
I went back to the field.  
You were frolicking in the mud.  
I couldn't help feeling  
my heart's every thud.  
I put my hand on your shoulder.  
You said What the hell, bud?  
I murmured, I love you.  
And then I thought,   
  
Because you had just  
punched me in the nose.  
I lost all sensation  
from my head to my toes.  
I awoke to find myself  
in a most uncomfortable pose,  
lying in the muck --  
not the thing I would have chose!  
  
_Chorus_  
Life really sucks, it seeeeeems!  
Without you, my Numenorean dreeeeeeam!  
  
Bleeding and sobbing,  
I retreated once more  
to hide in my chamber  
and curse you as a whore.  
But as I lay down  
you burst through my door  
and said, Let's not pretend --  
you know what I'm here for!  
  
Life doesn't sucks, it seeeeeems!  
Now I've got you, my Numenorean dreeeeeeam!  
  
Dreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeam...ooo ooo...my Numenorean dreeeeeeeeeeeeeam!  
  
Oh yeah!  
_  
As you can imagine, the crowd went wild.  
  
*  
  
Frodo rocked back and forth, clutching his blackberry pillow to his chest. He had failed. Failed as a leader of hobbits. Failed as a father. Life was so bleak. Life was pointless.  
  
As he rushed to his bureau, searching for a letter opener to stab himself with and take the pain away, Frodo's eyes fell on the super-elf-magical telephone. It gleamed in the light, a soft pearl pink. Without thinking, Frodo snatched it up and dialed the first number that came to mind.  
  
Yo! Frodo!  
  
Frodo clutched at the receiver. How did you know it was me, Elrond?  
  
Elf magical powers, Elrond replied with a giggle. And I've got caller ID.  
  
That's nice, Frodo mumbled, toying with the letter opener in a half-hearted daze.  
  
There was a long silence on the other end. In the background, Frodo could make out the words of a Sons of Numenor song. Really, was _everyone_ listening to that blasphemous trash these days?  
  
Finally, Elrond spoke. Frodo, what's up with you?  
  
Charlie's run away. Frodo hadn't meant to say anything about that to Elrond, but suddenly the words came pouring out. I don't know where he is, and, oh, Elrond! I have to find my son!  
  
Elrond replied thoughtfully. I'll see what I can do.  
  
*  
  
This is the fuckin' best night of my life, Charlie my man! Sven yelled in between cheers.  
  
Charlie wiped the sweat out of his eyes and grinned up at Sven. I _so_ owe you, Sven! he screamed back.  
  
Fireworks were exploding from the Hobbitnath now as the Sons made their final bows. Sven and Charlie, pressed up against the front of the stage, were cheering the very loudest of all. But, very suddenly, one of their voices was cut terribly short.  
  
Oh, NO! Charlie screamed as Sven's unconscious body dropped to the mossy ground. Sven's been SHOT!  
  
Don't be a moron! came a gruff voice amongst all the cheering, close to Charlie's ear. He's just been hit by someone's bra.  
  
Charlie whirled around to face the jerk who had just insulted his honor. But when he saw who the jerk was, the self-righteous sneer left his tanned face and was replaced with a look of awe.  
  
Mother of Valar! Charlie said in a low whisper. It's...it's _you_!   
  
Steward of Gondor paused in the task of hoisting Sven's limp body over his manly shoulder a moment to smile winningly through his mask.  
  
he said happily. That's me! Then his smile faded. Or, at least I _should've_ been. I would've been, if it hadn't been for --  
  
Watch it! yelped Charlie. The Steward had let Sven's crumpled form fall, and it was now rolling down the grassy hill to his left. Sven and the Steward, who had already begun to draw attention from the crowd of screaming hobbit teenagers, went tearing after it.  
  
Charlie cried, reaching his senseless friend first and falling beside him in despair. What're we going to do?  
  
Steward gave a furtive glance over his shoulder; a horde of hobbits were preparing to charge down the slope, autographable objects in hand.  
  
Let's get your friend to my trailer, he suggested, grasping Sven firmly by the ankles. Have you got his wrists, there?  
  
Charlie nodded, and taking hold of the other end of Sven with as much strength as he could muster, the two struggled off, Sven's massive body swinging between them.  
  
*  
  
Inspector Elrond would like to see you now, Master Frodo. The young hobbit, looking like he might pee himself, shifted eagerly in Frodo's doorway and watched Mr. Baggins with excitement.  
  
Send him in, Frodo muttered into his blackberry pillow.  
  
Instantly, Elrond bounded into the room. Frodo! We're going to find that boy! Buck up!  
  
Frodo was staring at Elrond's neon-orange trenchcoat with a mixture of horror and revulsion. I don't suppose you'll be very sneaky wearing that.  
  
Reverse psychology, Elrond shrugged. Say, got any barbecue sauce?  
  
*  
  
It was difficult, but Charlie and the Steward managed to lug Sven's huge body to the trailer. Darkness had fallen, but a rectangle of white light shone from the door and across the plastic mask of Steward of Gondor. Charlie looked up at him from behind strings of sweaty golden hair, and for a moment, their eyes met.  
  
Suddenly, the Steward stumbled over the steps of his trailer.  
  
shrieked Charlie, dropping Sven.  
  
The star dove forward in an attempt to save Sven's head from colliding with the trailer steps, but as his arm sprang out, it brushed his plastic mask and ripped it clean from the elastic string that bound it to his shaggy head.  
  
Sven hit the ground with a soft thud.  
  
There was a terribly long pause.  
  
You...you're the man from the picture... Charlie finally whispered, his mouth going completely dry.  
  
Steward blinked unhappily, squinting under the harsh light from his trailer.   
  
In...in my uncle's photograph. You...why, you're Boromir!  
  
---------------  
  
Thus ends the second chapter of our delightful sequel. We would like to thank MoroTheWolfGod for the review and point out that _of course_ they ate him. Why let a perfectly good elf go to waste?  



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